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Outcast. Betrayer. Chosen. After five years being a Fianna, Aisling
O’Malley still has to prove herself every day. The sins of the father weigh
heavily on her shoulders, and no matter what she does, her fellow warriors
regard her as the undeserving one. It doesn’t help that one of the four
mythical treasures of Ireland has turned up under her nose, leaving her none
the wiser. If by any chance the touted Spear of Lugh up for auction is indeed
the legendary Spear of Victory, she needs to get her hands on it before anyone
else does—and be spectacular enough about it to make the rest of the Fianna forget
she almost missed the artifact in the first place.
Exile. Betrayer. Forgotten. After spending twice as long undercover
as he ever lived at home, Ronan no longer knows where he belongs to or where
he’s actually exiled from. He can’t return to his people, not unless he
collects the four artifacts of power the Tuatha Dé lost when they were forced
to leave Ireland, and three millennia after the fact, he’s pretty sure they’re
going to remain lost. Except one of those ancient treasures has landed in his
lap—or could land in his lap, if he brings himself to work with the spunky
young woman who wants to hire him to consult on the Spear’s authenticity.
Can two broken people learn to trust one another? And even if they can, will it
be too late to save Ireland… or themselves?

“If you’re hoping I’ll tell you whether you’re
about to bid for a magical spear or not, I should warn you this is a loss of
time.”

Aisling waved a hand. “Magical. Legendary. Same thing.”

Ronan shook his head, staring at her
profile. “You aren’t very interested in what
happens tonight, are you?”

He saw her jaw tighten for a moment. A
nerve touched. Before he had time to figure out which one, she grinned.

“If that was
an offer, I promise I’m very much interested in what might happen tonight.”

The flirting threw him for a loop. When
they had met, he’d accepted
it, followed along. But it had all ended when she’d learned he was in fact the
professor she was looking to hire and when he’d learned why she wanted to hire
him.

Hadn’t it?

“The spear,”
he blurted. “The auction, I mean. How do you plan to bid for it?”

“It’s not
hard, I’m told. You raise your hand and offer to throw money at whoever is
running the show until he gives you what you want.”

“That’s
not…” quite what I
meant, and that smirk you can barely contain tells me you know it.“There will be many interested
bidders, willing to throw a lot of money for the spear, even if it’s a fake.”

“If it’s a
fake, we let them. If it isn’t, we outbid them.”

Ronan stared at her again. Off-the-rack
suit, beaten car, attitude in spades, and not a lot of class and glam to
sugarcoat the package.

“Do you even
understand the kind of money we’re talking about?”

Again, that tensing of her jaw. The
almost-there smirk wavering. She drove a few moments longer in silence, until
Ronan thought she wasn’t planning
on answering at all.

“I do,” she
confirmed at last.

Then she found a parking spot and killed
the engine, conversation over.

It wasn’t the parking lot of Pebbleton’s. It wasn’t the parking lot of
anywhere. Just a street, gloomy and not very reputable-looking.

“Where are
we?”

“Pebbleton’s
is that way.” She pointed. “Two streets over. I don’t want to park on the
doorstep.”

Ronan didn’t ask why, although the question burned on his lips. He stepped out of
the car and followed her, across a wider street, then around a corner toward an
unassuming squat building finished in naked concrete with a gaudy wooden door
that wouldn’t have looked out of place in an Edwardian English manor. When they
approached the door, a figure peeled from a pool of shadows and cut them off.
The man was about as tall as Ronan himself, but twice as burly. He was wearing
a tailored suit cut to accommodate his thick arms, and Ronan would bet good
money on it being designed to hide a sidearm as well. He greeted them with a
quiet grunt, playing every bit the part of intimidating thug.

Aisling reached for the inner pocket of
her jacket, the movement putting a tense frown on the guard’s brow, but rather than producing a
weapon, she flourished a thick black card embossed in glittering gold.

A pretentious eyesore, and their ticket
in.

With a nod, the guard stepped back into
the darkness. Aisling resumed her walk, no words exchanged, and Ronan followed
close by her side. When they arrived at the monstrosity of a door, it swung
open on silent hinges of its own accord.

“Fancy,”
Aisling commented as the well-lit foyer came into view. Hardwood floor, crystal
chandelier hanging from a ceiling not high enough to support it, a marble
statue of a satyr captured mid-prance tucked against the curve of a stairwell.
“But kind of…” she trailed off, searching for the right word.

She sounded amused. Ronan was horrified.

“Tacky?” he
supplied. “Chintzy? Bawdy? Dowdy?”

“I was going
for pretentious,” she said, laughter in her tone. “But I suppose those will
do.”

About Ron:

Ron C. Nieto is a fantasy and romance
author who has been writing in her secluded fortress for the longest time.
Recently, she had a talk with her cat and decided that she should share her
creations, because it was selfish to hoard them all for herself.

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